


Comfort Food

by apothothesis (valoirs)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valoirs/pseuds/apothothesis
Summary: Hey, meet me near the entrance to the officers' wing, Shiro had texted. Keith had expected just about anythingbutcooking.





	Comfort Food

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for [jstarpye](http://jstarpye.tumblr.com) of Tumblr for the 2017 Sheith Secret Santa. Merry Christmas and happy new year! I took a few liberties with the details of this fic, particularly with Garrison stuff, but I tried to incorporate elements from a few different prompts on your wishlist. Forgive me for any inaccuracies. I hope you enjoy!

 

 

"So if anyone asks, no one used this kitchen over the break."

Shiro's voice is soft over the crackle of the electric stove. They're somewhere in one of the shared amenity rooms of the officers' wing in the Garrison, and Keith can't remember the last time he's been here, only that he's half-expecting someone to barge in and interrupt the quiet peace. But it's already been thirty minutes since they've settled in here, Shiro hauling a large bag of groceries, Keith at his heels like some kind of confused pup, and no one's appeared so far.

It makes sense, in hindsight. With the winter holidays, a lot of people have gone home to see their families.

( _Hey, meet me near the entrance to the officers' wing_ , Shiro had texted. Keith had expected just about anything _but_ cooking.)

Being here has Keith a little on edge. Stepping foot in the kitchen was practically taboo at a few of the foster homes he's been in—something about the notion of stealing food, like it was a privilege to eat just enough to not starve. Popping into the Garrison commissary for a bite is one thing. Being in the officers' sector, as if he actually belongs, is another. It's less amply stocked here compared to some of the kitchens Keith remembers, but the basics are there: some general spices, condiments, leftovers in the fridge that are clearly going bad. The rest is all a motley selection of things Shiro has pulled from the nearest grocery store that miraculously isn't closed on Christmas.

"So what _are_ you making?" Keith asks, sitting backwards in a chair he's hauled over from a nearby table. He props his chin on top of the backrest, watching Shiro quickly rinse some vegetables and dig out an overused cutting board to make quick work of the potatoes. The knife looks dull, nothing like the one Keith keeps under his pillow. It's easy enough to see that it's practically a relic, something brought in to the kitchen for communal use, but passed around for years without proper replacement. There are some noodles on the counter that Shiro finished boiling and draining from a little earlier, sitting in a large container.

"Nikujaga," Shiro says. The foreign word falls fluently from his lips. He smiles a little. "I've made it before for the hell of it, and I figure, hey, you've probably never tried any either, so let's get you fed, too."

Keith ignores the weird, warm feeling settling in his gut. "Something your mom taught you?"

"Nah. I knew of the dish from a nanny my mother hired when I was a kid, but would it be weird to say I figured out how to make it from the Internet? At some point you get sick of the commissary food, and, well." Shiro makes a vague gesture. "This happens."

Right. Assuming his mom taught him might have been a bit of a stretch. Shiro speaks so rarely about his parents that it would be weird to think he has positive memories associated with them either. Keith knows the general gist, from the gossipmongers in the Garrison who've never learned to shut up: poster child from a prestigious military family, comfortably wealthy, just prickly enough that people watch themselves around him. Shiro might be the Garrison's so-called "golden boy," but not without a few caveats. You don't earn his level of respect without showing you've got some steel layered behind your teeth. The kind of steel you learn to wield early, once you've realized your dad has only his own interests at heart and your mom was never really on your side in the first place.

Self-sufficient. Exactly what Shiro has learned to be—same way Keith has. Or at least that's what Keith tells himself. But he knows now that it's impossibly difficult to imagine Garrison life without Shiro now. Impossibly difficult not because Shiro feels like a permanent fixture, but rather, because Keith has no idea what he'd do if Shiro spontaneously vanished one day.

What are the chances, right?

"Anyway, c'mere and help me cut the onions. This'll go faster with two people working."

Automatically, Keith's up on his feet, already heading over to the counter. Shiro has already unearthed another questionably old cutting knife, and Keith watches him get through peeling the onion, then chopping up half of it in efficient strokes. It's nothing like the seasoned intensity of a professional, the type with rapid-fire knife strokes, but it's enough to show that Shiro has done this a few times already.

Keith, on the other hand, though. He knows he's good in the flight simulator—has the scores and one-sided rivalries to prove it—but this is something else entirely. Shiro takes one glance at him after he starts and just laughs.

"Keith, that's—we're not going for a grip that’s made for stabbing here." He's still laughing.

Keith just stares at his knife hard and frowns. "Right, uh." He adjusts his grip, but it just feels _weird_.

"Nah, like this—"

And then Shiro's taking up a position behind him, chest pressing lightly against Keith's back, hands sliding over Keith's to guide them into the right position. Keith tenses for just a moment before he relaxes again. Shiro, of all people, is someone he can trust his back with. Shiro is the only person who's never given up on him, even when Keith seems to miss simple implications, or is on the verge of letting his temper burst, or misunderstands some dumb joke that he should get.

Shiro guides Keith's fingertips, tucking them away from the knife, shaping his hand so that if the knife slips, no fingers get chopped. They cut rhythmically, carving out thick slices of the onion.

"Getting the hang of it, right? I'll leave the rest to you." Shiro lets go around then, stepping away to handle other ingredients.

Keith nods his affirmative, then industriously starts working through the rest of the onion. It goes well enough until his eyes start stinging with tears. He soldiers through it stubbornly, managing to only let out one irritated growl, before he finally gives in and swipes at his eyes with the back of a hand when the sensation gets becomes too much. It's enough to catch Shiro's attention again from where the officer is at the stove, stir-frying some meat.

The hell? When did he get through preparing that?

More importantly, that mischievous look in Shiro's eye just means _trouble_.

"Shiro, what did you _do._ "

"Nothing! Onions are just like that—"

The only thing left to do is bring his onion-covered hands directly toward Shiro's face. "Yeah, and I'll show _you_ 'just like that', you ass—"

Except Keith's laughing too as Shiro ducks away in a graceful sidestep, inciting an entire chase around the perimeter of the kitchen. It evolves, somehow, into Keith coercing Shiro into eating a raw slice of onion, and then they're _both_ tearing up, though whether it's solely because of the onions or because of their laughter is up for debate. The beef Shiro was trying to stir-fry is unevenly cooked, some sides a little more charred, while others are about right.

"We could have avoided that entire thing if you just _told me_ ," Keith laments breathlessly, and he is totally not sullen as he watches Shiro improvise with a fork to fish the pieces of beef out of the pan and into a large bowl, leaving the oils in the pan.

"How fun is that though?" Shiro snickers, then holds his hands out in a little placating gesture at the deadpan stare Keith gives him. "Anyway, some of this stuff is burnt, but it's not _too_ burnt." He throws the onions they'd chopped earlier into the pan.

"Yeah, sure, that's the last time I ever trust you," Keith grumbles, peering over Shiro's arm to watch. "What do we need to add next?"

"We just have to stir-fry the onions until they're translucent, then add the other vegetables and stir-fry for a while. I'm adding some sake later and boiling most of the alcohol out, and adding the sauce. This area _really_ doesn't have good Japanese supermarkets, so I'm making do with some questionable soy sauce I found…"

"Questionable. Questionable how?"

"I don't know how long it's been in this cupboard, but it shouldn't have gone _that_ bad, right?"

Well. It can't be that bad. Keith's sure he's eaten worse. He leans up against Shiro's side, head resting on the man's shoulder, watching quietly as he cooks. The rest of the vegetables—the potatoes, some mushrooms, and the carrots—go into the pan next, filling the room with a pleasant aroma. Keith inhales it eagerly. This is about as close as it gets to anything soothing, especially when he listens to the way Shiro's voice narrates the next few steps of the process.

"All right, so here we add the sake… Smell that? We just have to boil it until you can't smell the alcohol anymore…"

"Yeah, okay," Keith murmurs, shifting in his position next to Shiro, content and warm in front of the stove fire. He sniffs the air a few times as they wait out the next few minutes, testing, then stands up a little straighter once he can't sense anymore of the alcohol. "Is this good now?"

"Yeah," Shiro says, stirring.

Keith lets him step away. Shiro starts measuring out other ingredients, resuming his serene narration. "So now it's just the beef stock, salt, sugar, soy sauce, and noodles… I couldn't find good shirataki noodles like the recipe I like suggests, but we're making do with some other variety I picked up from the store." He measures out each thing in turn after running through the list, precise and economical, before adding everything back into the pan and stirring to mix it all thoroughly. He replaces the lid on the pan.

From there, it's a matter of waiting it out, and if it were anyone else here instead of Shiro, the lull that settles might be tense. Instead, it's a companionable silence.

Keith learned early in the foster homes that a lot of it was a matter of making himself as small and insignificant as possible. Fidgeting was a gesture that attracted attention—any kind of noticeable nervous habit could catch in someone's peripheral vision. Be ready to move, at any moment. Don't ever grow attached to too much; it just means the more you have to throw away with the next move, and the more leverage other people have over you. He'd learned the usefulness of holding still. It's only when he has his knife in hand that he feels safe enough in his agency again, free to fidget.

He doesn't have the weapon with him on his person, not after the last time it almost got confiscated, but Shiro has the same effect in how he dispels Keith's tension. Keith takes a seat and shifts his weight to get more comfortable, and it doesn't hang heavy in his mind; he knows Shiro doesn't mind or care.

At some point, Shiro's phone goes off: he'd set a timer for how long the food needs to simmer. Keith crowds against Shiro's side again as they return to the stove, wrinkling his nose at the heavy puff of steam that's released when Shiro lifts the lid of the pan and starts adding green beans to the mix. It smells good enough that Keith's stomach is rumbling.

"Almost done," Shiro says, grinning. "Not a bad way to end Christmas, right? I got you something, too. It's not much, but I figured it'd be useful."

Keith swallows. With little money to spend on personal expenditures, he'd been racking his mind over what to give Shiro for nearly a week. Eventually, he'd told himself it would be fine as long as Shiro didn't give him anything, but of course Shiro has something. "I didn't—"

"Next time, all right?" Shiro reaches out, places a steadying hand on Keith's shoulder. "I'll take a raincheck." He winks.

Keith smiles back, a little uncertainly. "Yeah. Next time, for sure." Rather than stand there uselessly, he goes about looking for bowls and eating utensils in the meantime so that they're ready to eat, and after Shiro switches off the stove, Keith scoops up portions for both of them, bringing everything to the closest table.

When they're both seated, Keith digs in, unable to resist. The style of food isn't what he's accustomed to, not with the commissary's questionable offerings and his selective memory of foods from the foster homes. "Wow. This is pretty good."

"Guess I haven't lost my touch, huh?" Shiro grins. "Hey, let's finish fast so I can give you your gift."

"Or you could just give it to me now," Keith says, managing a small smirk.

"Keith, that spoils the fun."

"How does that spoil something if you're gonna give it to me anyway?" He peers hard at Shiro, as if that'll tell him the exact location of the present. "C'mooon, Shiro." And this way, he could start planning earlier what to give back. He'd figure out something, somehow.

"All right, you got me. I have it with me. Kinda hid it in one of the grocery bags so I could sneak it in more easily without you getting suspicious," Shiro says, and he stands to his feet to retrieve the package in question, tossing it to Keith.

Keith catches it without missing a beat, fingers digging a little into the wrapping paper. It makes a crinkling sound as he sets it down on the table and scrutinizes it for only a few moments before he starts to shred the paper. The package isn't especially large, but it's enough to pique his curiosity. After freeing the gift from the paper, Keith unfolds it in his hands. It's a dark maroon cloth made of warm, quality material that's still breathable. There's a good weight to it.

"Face scarf," Shiro says by way of explanation, smiling. "I know you're probably used to it, but it's for when the dust in the desert gets to be a bit much. Plus, even if Iverson's used to catching us out on the fliers when we aren't supposed to be, that doesn't mean everyone will recognize you if you have half your face covered. And also…" There's a jangle as Shiro pulls the keys to his flier out of his pocket and sets them on the table. "You can try it on tonight anyway, when I take you flying."

Keith's breath catches. Sometimes he has to remind himself that Shiro is a real person in his life. "Jeez, Shiro," he whispers, fingers curling into the cloth. "Thank you—I don't know how to express it better, but I'm really grateful for this, and—"

Shiro rounds the table to give him a hug, and Keith clutches onto him, breath a little shakier than he'd like to admit, pressing his face into Shiro's shirt. It smells lightly of the cologne he usually wears. "Just always remember, okay? I'll never give up on you."

It's a warm sort of promise, the kind that makes Keith think of stars and other galaxies, the kinds of things he used to only dare to see as dreams at best. Wherever Shiro goes is where he'll follow.

It's the only path that feels right.

 

 

 

"You wanna _what_?"

"Look, I was just wondering if you've heard of it," Keith says, eyes averting. Maybe this is all just a stupid idea after all. "Pidge was saying this is about that time when it'd be—Christmas, on Earth. So I wanted to know if you've heard of nikujaga. It's a Japanese dish, I think." His tongue feels clumsy trying to wrap itself around the word.

"Nikujaga." It seems the phrase _Japanese dish_ has done the trick, because Hunk is looking thoughtful now instead, the same way he does when he's on the cusp of a groundbreaking innovation that would probably make half the instructors piss themselves if they were still at the Garrison. "Never heard of it, but maybe I can make something similar. What's in it?"

"Beef, soy sauce…" _Crap, what else goes into it?_ Keith bites his lip. "Onions, potatoes...green beans… Mushrooms? And noodles, I think. Cooked with sake. It's some kind of comfort food."

"Oooh, I can do comfort food. We've got some of those weird purple oblong vegetables that have a texture similar to onions… Oh, oh, we could probably ask—"

"Don't tell Shiro," Keith cuts in, then watches in mild embarrassment as Hunk merely quirks an eyebrow at him, then grins with understanding.

"I _was_ gonna say Pidge, 'cause she probably has a better way of looking into more details about the recipe somehow somewhere, if you don't remember, but don't worry, I won't tell Shiro. Until we're giving this to him. I mean, we _are_ serving it to him, right?"

"Yes," Keith groans, half-wondering if he shouldn't have said anything. "It's just—it feels like he's been stressed recently, and I wanted to do something. We ate this together once. So I thought it'd be something nice. Something to remind him a little of home."

If Keith's face is burning right now, Hunk has the mercy to refrain from comment. His eyes soften a bit in understanding. "Oh, yeah, totally," he says, in the way he does, something lighting in his eyes. "That's what food's about, isn't it? Some way to remind you of home, or lift your mood when you need it. And Shiro probably needs comfort food the most out of all of us. All right, I'll see what I can do."

Keith nods, but then he freezes as Hunk pins him with a specific purposeful look.

"Also, you're on Shiro duty now. Keep him out of the kitchen. Uh, actually, out of this entire wing. Until I give the signal."

"How do I even know what the signal is? What if I don't even find him before he gets in here?!"

"You'll just know! It'll be fine. Go, go find Shiro."

For all his complaints, however, Keith knows exactly where to look: there's the observation deck that Shiro favors visiting when he wants some time alone to think. In all honesty, it works out better that Keith's on Shiro duty, because he has more than one reason to find Shiro. There's a gift he'd managed to barter for at the space mall that he's been holding onto, and it feels like the right kind of time to give it to Shiro. He retrieves it from his room before he makes his way to the deck.

Shiro turns a little at the sound of Keith's footsteps. "Keith," he says in greeting, and it sounds like he's already preparing to sound the part of their leader. Like the Black Paladin.

"Don't start up with that," Keith says softly. "I've told you before already, you don't have to try to act like that around me. You can relax." _Same way I can around you_ goes unsaid.

"Sorry. Just had a lot on my mind." Shiro's smile is a brittle thing, a little lopsided.

"You can talk to us about stuff, you know. We'd be willing to hear you out. _I'd_ be willing to hear you out. I'm shit at communication, but I can't be that much worse than I was several years ago at the Garrison," Keith says. He tracks the shifting expression on Shiro's face.

"Thanks. I just have some stuff I need to work through. I'll be fine. What brings you over here though? Were you looking for me?"

Well. Now's as good a time as any. And Keith knows exactly what's going on with Shiro's reclusiveness, so he supposes it's about time to at least try getting it through to Shiro that he's here for him. "I know I'm no good at this stuff, but. I got you something. Pidge said it's about that time when it would be Christmas on Earth. Here." He tosses the small parcel to Shiro.

Shiro catches it with ease, blinking in surprise. "Keith, you didn't have to."

Keith's only response is a small smirk back. "Raincheck, remember?"

"I can't believe you actually remembered that." Shiro's gaze is soft with wonder.

"I had to," Keith says softly. "Open it, okay?"

Shiro is a lot more careful about package-opening compared to Keith. Instead of shredding the wrapping, he works at it meticulously, neatly peeling tape and unfolding. His eyes widen as he pulls a gray cloth out from the packaging, then a small bottle.

"Face scarf," Keith says, mirror to Shiro's words from those years ago. "I was gonna say we'd match, but. I didn't bring mine. It's probably still somewhere at that old shack. We might have our paladin armor now, but I thought it'd be nice. For old time's sake." He swallows. "And the bottle—I tested it a little, a while back. The place I got it from at the space mall said it's a spray-on fragrance. I'm guessing their equivalent of cologne. It smells a little like the one you used to wear. I don't know the first thing about just how bad the flashbacks can get, but I thought if you had something familiar that could ground you in a safer memory space, it'd help. Even if it's just something old, from back before everything changed."

It's about the most daring thing he's ever done, but he takes purposeful strides to Shiro and pulls him down a little, by the front of his shirt. Keith presses their foreheads together. Shiro's close enough that Keith could hold him, or press closer and just—

"I'm here, okay?" Keith says instead, voice trembling. "I've got your back. And just as you never gave up on me, I'll never give up on you. If it wasn't for you, my life would have been a lot different."

He closes his eyes, feeling the flutter of Shiro's eyelashes when Shiro does the same. The shakiness of Shiro's breath as they both breathe in sync, chests heaving in unison.

Shiro doesn't say a word, but from how his fingers find their way to Keith's hand and squeeze, it's enough. It's more than enough.


End file.
